back to basics

please just don't forget me The inside of the guildhall had finally been cleaned up - a relief for Ronin, since it had been in a state of disarray even since before he had died. They'd still been coping after LongNight, but now it at least seemed that the interior of the building looked the way it ought to. The outside, though... that still needed some work. The morning was a cool one, a lingering mist still drifting through the Settlement, but it didn't stop Ronin. There had been a few boards to repair and things to clear up in the area around the guildhall, as well as some structural issues to fix. For the most part they were done now, and Ronin was left to the aesthetics. He sighed as he gazed up at the building, then down at the pots of paint beside him. The sign could use a fresh lick of the stuff, and so could a lot of the smaller details. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he nodded and moved away to grab a ladder so he could begin.

MELITA

Melita skipped and swayed down the paths of cobblestones, roaming along the vast settlement with the same restless, chaotic energy she constantly embodied. Training had become a proper outlet, but she also created her own little diversions after grounding herself into the earth, taking stances, altering herself into more precise tactics – it drained her to use her mind instead of bounding straight into action with little thought or schemes. The world was bright and dazzling before her eyes, and she had every intention of exploring it more and more when given the opportunity; a break, a solace, in strengthening limbs and bountiful spirit.

She hummed, a tune her mother had sung once or twice as they worked through the fields, gathering wildflowers and specific herbs – had she been capable of remembering their names, their titles, their uses she might have found herself an entirely different occupation. Instead though, she’d always been distracted by the rush of an animal, the noise of the waving reeds and tall, vigilant blades, the roar of the wind brushing past her senses. Her gaze was settled on the rest of the venue now, poised along the tops of buildings, the points of spires, the banners still shuddering in the breeze, signifying an end to Longnight’s reign, the rush of more seasons until the next cycle. She’d be better by then.

Fangorn hissed something at her side, and she stopped, glancing down at the gourd. His eyes didn’t reach hers, and instead stared to the left, where she hadn’t been gazing at all, at the base of a large building. She’d yet to ever physically go within the guild, didn’t know much about it at all, and had her curiosity not been won over by chorus bees or signs of impending danger (thrilling and comfortable, a familiar rush to her limbs). A man stood there too, surrounded by pots of paint. Maybe they wanted some assistance? She could probably wield a paintbrush efficiently. Something seemed so familiar though…

She meandered closer, bright and cheery, hands behind her back as she inched and inched. The youth thought about maneuvering as quietly as she could, just to see if she could be sneaky, but then it didn’t feel right. “Hello! Do you want any help-" She paused once she reached his side, and a bizarre reality struck her.

Ronin.

Hadn’t he died? Hadn’t he been killed battling the Spire Demon? Hadn’t the world snapped its jaws and ground its teeth and threatened everything when words of his death beat at their skulls? “Ronin?” Her voice was soft, and her reaction was vivid, eyes widening, brain struggling to understand. Wessex had come back once too – crushed and the tale told, only for her to reappear, a joke amidst the droves. Was it the same now? She didn’t have the nerve to say anything more, mouth already parted wide and open, shocked and a tad ridiculous. Fangorn growled and frowned at her ankles, and neither one knew what to do.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me Ronin's instincts were not what they once were (not yet, anyway) and he would have been quite the perfect target for Melita and Fangorn's sneak attack. Perhaps for the best, though, he was spared the potential to spill paint all over himself, having just rested the ladder against the wall so he could climb up and get at the sign. The sound of a voice had him turning just as he was reaching for a pot of paint, a bright smile on his lips at the offer of help. But before he could so much as form a response, his eyes fell upon Melita (and hers upon him, as evidenced by her shock), and he couldn't help but start to laugh. "Uh... Hi, yeah. Me." He grinned, ruffling a hand through his dark hair. "Melita, isn't it? We worked together to build the spark bird perch..." And maybe they'd met prior to that, or after it - dying and coming back had scrambled his mind somewhat in that regard. "I'd love some help, if you don't mind. This place needs a bit of TLC. Though, I... er... I imagine you probably want to talk about me being not-dead, before we start?"

MELITA

What does someone say to a person brought back to life? There were a thousand myriad things springing across her tongue and coiling through her brain – an overwhelming, overbearing juncture of inquiries and curiosities. What was it like? What had he seen? Where had he gone? How was he returned to humanity, when they’d all seen him fall apart? And how was it determined, how was it scored, how was it scorched, that he should be sent to earth once more, and others had not? Her smile fell in the ring and roses of confusion, thorns, brambles, and nettles settling their way into her heart. If Ronin could reappear, alive, tangible, and whole, why couldn’t her mother? Why couldn’t her sister? Why couldn’t all the other gods and goddesses that had sacrificed themselves, that had tried to save the world crumbling beneath their feet? Who made the decision, the distinction, to send them all into dust and ash, or heartbeats and rhythms? Did their need to be legacies, instead of distant memories? Did they need to be virtuous and obliging? Did they need to be more than everyone and everything else? Hadn’t they all deserved some form of revival? Her gaze roamed upon Ronin – seemingly the same as before, before finally arriving at some sort of response, everything else flown away on the wind, on the rain, on the rancorous tangles and distortions piercing her sides. “Only if you want to.” She shrugged, the ghost of her grin reappearing, her head tilted; presuming he’d conducted the same conversation over and over and over again with everyone else who’d known about his death, and subsequent resurrection. Her intrigue didn’t mean he had to suffer through another bout of pain, of torment, of anguish, or a tarnished, overdone pattern.

She glanced at the ladder, at the guild seemingly fading, lack of paint, lack of care, bombardments, assailments, and everything else sieged against it in the time he’d been gone. Had no one else bothered? Had no one else cared? Or had they been busy, picking up the pieces he’d left behind, grieving, then celebrating his rebirth, his regeneration? “What do you need me to do?” The youth inched forward, Fangorn tucked behind, stare resting on the pots of paint.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me He held her gaze steadily, unable to know what was going through her head but imagining it well enough. He hadn't conducted as many of these conversations as he had expected, just yet, but he felt the same as some of those who hadn't known him well. What right had he, over others? Why did he get to return to this place, to pick up the pieces he'd left behind, when there were thousands who could not? He knew why, but that didn't make it any less bitter on some days. "I don't mind talking about it," he murmured. "I was a star, for a while. But Safrin plucked me down, after a friend of mine made a very great sacrifice to the god of death. To Mort." Sighing, he ruffled a hand through his dark hair. "She was brought to this place with the gift of immortality. Gift or curse, I suppose. And she gave it up, that I might come back. I'm standing here on her heartbeats, not my own." Heavy as the talk was, he also managed to conjure back a ghost of a smile, nodding to the paint and a couple of brushes, before selecting a pot and brush for himself and beginning to climb the ladder. "If you wouldn't mind giving the borders a fresh coat, I'd appreciate it. In the meantime, I'll make sure this says the right thing." At the moment the sign boasted the name Mntr untrs guld and Ronin was keen to change that.

MELITA

It was through a series of circumstances and devotion that seemed to have led him back here, plucked from the sky. Her eyes floated to the horizon, incapable of seeing the aforementioned; for now, their hues and formations were gone to her, blending into the enlightened sky. Her mind mulled over immortality – when she’d heard so many deities encompassing the role, then watched them destroyed despite their strength, their capabilities, their endurance – the gift, the curse, the spellbinding contracts fizzling between kindred individuals and spirits. He’d obviously committed courageous acts to inspire such commitment, such adherence, such dedication to other beings. “Oh,” was all she could say for a matter of moments, struggling to decipher the multitude of layers and lacquer attached to everything. There was some expressions digging their way through her throat, how she hoped he’d make the most of the second chance, of the consecrations and anointments, but he likely already understood the overbearing weight. He’d probably adhere to it without any issue. It probably already hovered in his form, ready to embark and be unleashed. So curiosity stoked and fired again, a bit more brazen, a bit more defiant, a bit more provoking, smile tipping on the edge of her lips, on the fringes of her intrigue. “What are you going to do with this life?”

Maybe her mother and sister were stars somewhere up in the heavens too. Perhaps they’d be more like wildflowers, growing from the soil, waving their blooms and blossoms with steadfast courage and beatific courtesies. She’d like to find them, to see them again, to know and understand they were still a part of this world – her heart caught in her chest and stung, and she spirited her gaze away from him.

“Okay,” Melita agreed to his request, looking over the borders lacking their paint and finery, chipped off, fallen in pride and radiance over time and elements. She could do that at the very least, inching toward the pots, hands grabbing a brush. Fangorn thought he’d be helpful too, bored otherwise, snagging another, whipping it around with his fangs and sending drips of paint everywhere. She stifled a laugh, glancing at Ronin and his sign, before grasping the tool away from the gourd. Her fingers glided over his head, gave him a little scratch, a sign of affection, appreciation, and thankfulness, and then maneuvered back to the borders, stroking over the wood, watching the hues and colors come back to life – a cycle, a pattern, in these parts.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me Ronin laughed, too, at the sight of Fangorn 'helping' - this was the exact reason why he had left Sugar inside, though if either the gourd or Melita looked too closely at the ground floor windows of the guildhall, they might catch a small, pale dragon snoozing in the sun on the windowsill. At Melita's question, Ronin grinned down at her from the ladder and nodded at the sign. "I'm going to hunt monsters," he said, already having begun work on the word 'monster' with his paintbrush. "It's what I did before, and I was quite enjoying it," he explained. And since Safrin had instructed him to get stronger again before he was in a fit state to help her with her work, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to teach his body how to fight again. His smile softened, and he went back to work on painting. "That and raise my daughter, and help my family and friends," he murmured. What else was life for, in the end? "How about you? What have you made of this place so far?"

MELITA

I’m going to hunt monsters nearly caused her to drop her brush, head shifting sharply to stare at him. She’d hunted monsters, feral, foul, little damned demons aiming to strike their talons and claws into her family, into her friends. She’d rebelled against their howls and bellows, tried so desperately to convey everything she felt into the heart of her assaults, sedition in the decadent halls, revolution in the dismal, gloaming sky, until the end, until the portal, until she’d fallen again. The girl wanted to convey her interest, but it stuttered in her chest, in the outline of the word he painted. Was she ready? Was she even that same child, fervent, eager, reckless, and stupid? Does she want to chase the ghouls, the specters, the memories, down again?

At least Ronin had found something to satisfy him – family, stalking, assisting – and she lowered her eyes back to the faded remnants of paint chipping away, elongating subtle strokes of paint back over their foundation lines. What had she made of this world? It was different and bewildering – she didn’t have to watch her back every day, every night, every second, or keep one step ahead of fiends snatching and deceiving, she didn’t have to suffer beneath the weight of false gods. But she understood the reaches of its hold too, the cumbersome load of LongNight and its vicious current, the Spire crackling and cracking, the riotous outbreak of Naturals against Outlanders. Something’s never changed – not with people, not with individuals, not with ideas and notions and opinions. So instead of dipping into the machinations of the void, of the dawn, she reverted to what always held her together. “It’s interesting,” she smiled back up at him. “It inspires me to get stronger.” To be mighty, to be forceful, to be vigilant, to be everything.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me Unfortunately, Ronin was much too focused on painting and not falling off the ladder to catch Melita's look up at him, and he managed to finish up the 'Monster' part of the sign before reaching down to dip his brush in more paint. "Interesting is definitely one way of putting it!" he agreed with a vibrant laugh; as a man who had been a star before falling to the earth again, there was no doubt about that. Leaning up once more to continue the work on the sign, he hummed a note of agreement with her. "When I arrived back here I realised I am not... well. I wouldn't last five seconds around even the weakest monsters right now. So I understand - I've got a lot of work ahead of me too."

MELITA

Melita maneuvered her way further down the border, touching up on spots she’d missed along the way, blowing a few strands of hair out of her face as she meandered on, struggling to see the forest past the trees. She wondered if it was easier for a man who’d been capable, who’d been strong, who’d been vibrant and mighty, to have fallen to earth with the knowledge of his bestial faculties, but not the muscle or brawn. Or was it more heartbreaking, to have done the bone-breaking, soul-crushing work, and have it evaporated, pilfered away on the strings and notes of death, allowed to come back, but not the same? Did it even matter – because eventually Ronin would gain it all back? He had time and experience, wisdom and sagacity that no one could take away.

She didn’t voice her inquiries. Instead, she hummed a little, a routine, a habit, a bright, spirited tune residing in her essence, stirred usually from restlessness, a favored ditty and strain of her sister’s. She’d drone while Clementine singed, for they all knew Melita’s voice to be a loud, booming thing, incapable of holding a more beatific tune, smile and listen, war away all the inner workings of her mind. “I’ve been training,” the girl uttered beneath the harmonies and strains, as if trying to defend herself from an incoming swarm; hyper-vigilant of her inaccuracies, of her faults, of her flaws, of her desperation become something, someone, better than the scalding, impulsive reach of her barbs and thorns. I don’t mind work passed below her breath, gave no intonation to its thought, stirring the bellows away away away, and holding them tightly to her chest instead. On a lighter note, she raised her head, watched the finishing touches of monster with the brush still in her hand, an odd amount of paint somehow streaked across her nose. “At least you have the knowledge from before!”

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me His tongue poking out ever so slightly as he began to touch up the word 'hunters', Ronin glanced down at Melita as she spoke. He hadn't intended to offend her, wondering if her comment was in defence of something he had accidentally intoned. Smiling instead, he nodded to her cheerfully. "Maybe we could train together at some point?" he suggested. "Or maybe you could come along and hunt a monster or two, huh? The more the merrier." He tipped her a wink, dipping the paintbrush again so he could finish up the last word on the sign. "Yes, at least there's that. At the moment it's only really good to teach others, though. My body... disobeys me, I guess would be a good way of putting it." Ronin shook his head, as if his own limbs were akin to naughty children who no longer did as they were told.

MELITA

There are no admonishments and reprimands sent her way, despite her expectations and experiences (the lectures, the kind that scarred and the kind that she let flicker away like the wings of a butterfly), and instead, only an offer that her grasping little claws couldn’t ever refuse. “Yes!” She uttered, bright and indulgent, a triumphant grin returning to her face, her heart acquisitive and greedy, eternally yearning to prove herself, to become better, stronger, a beast, a heathen, instead of the sometimes successful fiend. Melita would easily do both, rip and tear apart monsters with her bare hands if necessary, savage and sinister, nefarious and irreverent, waiting for their scales, their teeth, their poison, their venom. “Whenever you’d like!” The notions set her ablaze, ignited on her lungs and in her mind, and she set about her task once more, quicker and swifter, flicking droplets of paint on the ground with the rapacious, voracious edges of her task.

She listened too, listlessly sinking her fingers on Fangorn’s head and scratching the gourd, paintbrush tucked between her teeth as she stepped back and observed her progress. “That makes sense, I suppose,” she mumbled around the brush, before taking it back into her hands and going over the missed spots, coating and coating with the remnant of hues, blending them back together. “It doesn’t understand the experiences that your mind does.” The honeybee youth dipped into more of the paint, whisking it back and forth on frayed ends and chipped particles, working her way up so that her arms had to stretch and unfold, twisting her head upwards too, so she could better catch Ronin's light. “But that will come with time too.”

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

please just don't forget me Melita's smile was contagious, Ronin grinning back and glancing up to finish the lettering on 'Guild' before giving the girl his full attention again. "I'll be sure to let you know, the next time something especially big and bad starts going bump in the night!" He chuckled, clambering back down from the ladder and propping it outside the gates of the guildhall so that he could join her in painting the borders and detailing. "Well lookit you," he crooned at Fangorn as Melita affectionately scritched the little gourd, smiling at her and arching an eyebrow. "You've, ah, got paint on you." He laughed. "And I hope so. In the meantime, I'll just have to expose it to as many of those experiences as I can, so it can catch up!"

MELITA

The invitation was there again, glowing and glimmering, and she snagged it for all it was worth – back into those broken little miseries where she felt alive and terrible, nefarious and gilded, tethered and torn from a lifetime of aches and pains. The way she openly embraced it was ironic; eluding the demons for so long, then chasing them down again, but a promise was a promise (to become mightier, to become stronger), and she didn’t back away from a challenge, from things that went bump in the night. Be the bigger monster the world of the Rift had taught her, and she wasn’t going to shy into its forsaken reaches again – opting to hiss and growl, to roar and howl, to bellow and yell her vengeance, her rage, her contempt. “Yes please!” She grinned again, a shout, a bark, into the heavens, a quieter admonition following. “Thank you.” To even be considered was a novelty, and she wouldn’t forget his kindness.

He proceeded back down the ladder and she stepped back, measuring and calculating where to go from there with the borders – smothering a giggle as Fangorn received a croon from Ronin. The gourd glanced at her, then him, back and forth, uncertain about what to do, saved by Ronin’s scrutiny of Melita’s features, apparently cast in paint. She shrugged, because there had been far worse things on her person before (the stale breath of death, hastened and conducted by her own mother’s ghost, fanning and wrapping its limbs around her throat; the faded remnants of blood, stained and drenched, hers and others, speckled across shorn arms and bare feet). She did, however, make an effort to remove it from her face, wiping her sleeve across the bridge of her nose, but it only served to make it worse, spreading right along her cheeks. The girl shrugged again, not even remotely bothered, a laugh coiled from her lungs. “Exactly!” The youth agreed and winked at him, before gliding her paintbrush over a spot nearby.

This is a gift, it comes with a price
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?
Midas is king and he holds me so tight
And turns me to gold in the sunlight